


Shattered Crown

by ShaggyMack



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Male Main Character, Midevil setting, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3558029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaggyMack/pseuds/ShaggyMack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never wanted this. He never asked for this. But with armies at his back and a corrupt Kingdom to his fore he is beyond backing out. It is time to bring justice to his people. <br/>Two sons were an incredibly ill omen in the Royal Line. The younger son should have been destroyed, that was their way. But compassion and fate conspired to save him and now he will save his people no matter the cost. <br/>Love and Hatred, Justice and Corruption, Right and Wrong, Two sides of the same coin and never clear. Brother against brother he will lead an army because war was coming if he helped them or not.</p>
<p>Ratings and tags may change with later chapters. This is my first published work please be kind.</p>
<p>Beta read by SightSoBlind</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

    Markus heaved a heavy sigh and rolled from his cot. The first rays of dawn slipping through the tattered sides of his tent lanced painfully though his eyes. _'Still not used to that, maybe never will be.'_ He thought as he stood and let his squire help him into his amour, and great cloak. The armor, something he would never go without, the cloak was more of a formality, than useful purpose. But, the men expected certain things form him and his appearance, despite his complaints, seemed to rank fairly high in the list. Expectations... duty... a myriad of things that screamed service and responsibility. _'Neither of those things I asked, nor wished for._ _Still, pressed upon me nonetheless.'_ His thoughts snapped back to the present violently as he emerged from his war tent. 15,000 men fully armed, albeit ragtag and motley. They craned their necks to see him. Their eyes hopeful, fearful and nervous as they waited for his words. He was their chosen prince, The Night Prince,The Dark Half, and many more names, some of which he knew, many he was sure did not. So be it, let them name him as they will. He had already given his people what he thought was his life, as he had tried in vain to help those struck with the plague on the borders of the kingdom. In the end, doing little more then falling to it himself. If he had known that his Royal Blood would stop him from falling permanently, instead leave him afflicted him with this... this _disease_ , he would have fallen on his own sword when it was still early enough in his illness to be granted a sure death. But there was no changing the past and as it is now, he stands before the men, dark, tall, and resolved to do what was needed for his Kingdom. Damn the Nobles. I do this for the people. Not the pampered throngs set high in the towers of the capitol, but the common men and women, those upon whose backs the gentry built their spoiled worthless lives.  
    "Today, we undertake the first in what will be many, many bloody, unholy ordeals. None of us wanted this, but we were given no option. No forum in which to plead our case. No court to hear our grievances. Nothing but a tightening of the vice. They give us steeper taxes to pay for luxuries, while they take our children to their armies to fight wars for the purposes of land and gold. Our families are starving, while we load our grain into carts bound for the tables of fat merchants, and spoiled nobles. But I ask you this, what is it that makes a man noble? Is it merely the circumstance of his birth? Is it the title he gains from the death of his father? Or is it the strength of his character? Is Nobility a virtue of character or a birthright? Is it his resolve, to do what is right and true? Sadly, it is not always easy to see what is right, or true. We are all but men, from the lowliest field worker, to the fat head that holds a jeweled crown. All of us, just as easily swayed in our nature by the ebbs and flows of the world around us. By our own greed, lust, and vanity. I am no different. But, it is you who have placed this mantle on me. You who have chosen to follow me, to fight _with_ me. And you, who have given me the duty... No the honor, of fighting, and Gods willing, dying for something worthy. For what is right. Look to the north my friends. The mountains are burning!" And with that he turned on his heel, his long, thick bladed sword rasping harshly as it cleared it's sheath. The cries, and roars of all those men nearly deafening in the early morning light. And within hours, the mountains did burn.

* * *

  
     "Your Highness, re-reports from the Southern front!" The steward stammered, out of breath as he entered the hall. King Relland looked up from his papers. 

  
_'So, he's really done it then. With that rabble behind him, my Kingdom to his fore. So be it brother, let us see who was meant to sit in this chair after all.'_ The King thought to himself as he took the reports and scanned them once, and then a second time. He turned to the assembled advisers, and sent them scurrying with a yell. "Get out!"

    Only his generals remained. "How in the blue blessed fuck did he do this?" The King bellowed in rage, his soft pudgy cheeks flushed with anger.

    "We... uh we have not received detailed reports on his tactics, or numbers as of yet Sir. We only received what news the few runners that safely arrived made off with. They say it was a slaughter. They even captured, or killed the runners that they could, we are not sure which yet..." The General of the Southern marches said quietly, knowing his head would roll if this went sideways.

    "Get someone out to scout it, a lot of someones, I don't fucking care what it costs, just get me news on what the hell is happening!" King Relland screeched as he stood, and made his way to a window to look out. Turning back suddenly and screaming himself nearly hoarse. "And for shits sake, find out why it looks like the fucking mountains are burning!"


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' forces take Cloudpeak and the first blow of the war is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation note: Alorana = Al or e ah nah

    Cloudpeak was considered by many to be a modern miracle of engineering. Carved over decades from the middle peak of the Frostfire mountain range. The small town was a work that spanned the reign of three kings, and used the manpower of thousands of laborers. It housed nearly fifteen hundred guardsmen. The sole purpose of the city was the growth, harvesting, and shipping of the kingdoms most prized agricultural gem. A small, rather ugly plant called Aloriana's Breath. The plant was nearly entirely poisonous. Out of every 20 odd pounds of it that is harvested, less than a single pound is usable. The small, hard pods are plucked, carefully, then they are stripped of the outer layers, leaving a pale purple flesh. These are then dried over weeks, then ground by hand. The resulting powder can then be used in nearly anything. What made the substance special, was the fact that much like a drug, consuming this powder was like eating joy itself. 

    Something about the fine powder, causes the imbiber to feel the same emotions, feelings, and thoughts that being in love, or having moments of pure bliss bring. Thus, it's given name. Aloriana being the Goddess of love, and joy, never seemed to mind the comparison. Alorianas's breath was almost exclusively used by the nobility. It was the centerpiece of extravagant balls and affairs. Those who could afford it, had been know to put it in everyday items, such as pastries, or tea. It was the very definition of decadence. And due to its position as a trapping of overindulgence, it was the main reason for the events that transpired this morning.

    A cold fog hung thick about the city. Late shift guards rubbed the sleep form their eyes, trying to make it the last hour or so of their shifts. The field workers were just starting to rise, and prepare for the day. No one seemed to take note of the amount of fog, putting it off to the time of year, or perhaps a rain storm soon to come. No one was on high guard, the harvest had already been taken in, and the drying, and grinding was nearly finished. Besides, what call could there be for alarm? The city was high in the mountains, the paths up were a closely guarded secret known only to a select few officials. The kingdoms nearest enemies were far away across a small expanse of sea to the west. 

    The first arrow hit it's mark with only a low whistle to announce it. The black arrow shaft, with gray fletching vibrating form the force of the shot as it pierced the chest plate of the guard on the wall. Immediately after the whistle-hum of dozens of arrows filled the air. The deadly missiles finding their marks one after the next, fired by expert marksman. Guards fell from the walls, and towers. The low rumble of men running was the next thing heard in the cloudy morning as the fog started to part. The main force of Markus's men hitting the walls from two directions, the west, and north. The front lines held tower shields to ward off arrows and bolts from the defenders, while the next rank pushed through the middle with iron shod rams. The slamming of iron against wood, gave way to the creaking, and groaning of the gates as they broke under the assault. They caved inward, allowing the men to push into the city proper.

    A young farm hand named Jonas watched as he ran. He had never been a soldier before, but he had joined Markus' army after his family had lost their land to taxes after a lean, hard winter. He struggled to keep up with the main body of the first wave, wanting nothing more than to not be a hindrance, and hoping to be of some use. Not dying, was of course on the list, but it was pushed to the rear of his mind in the excitement, and fear of the moment. As he cleared the gates, he could see Markus, tall, dark, and terrifying not thirty yards away from his position. The massive, black war bow in his left hand as he pulled, loosed, and man after man fell before his onslaught. The bow was something from a nightmare. It's length nearly that of a normal man, strung with a thick, black cord. It was equipped with what amounted to a buckler, covering the area where Markus' hand held the weapon. In the buckler, was his sword, like a partial sheath. Half the length of the blade exposed, so as to be used as a melee weapon should the need arise. Markus moved through the chaos like some dark dancer, men falling, crying out, or simply moving aside in his wake. 

    Jonas had never seen him this close before, and only now did he realize why the men called him the Dark Prince. Everything seemed to dim around Markus. The light paling, the shadows growing thicker. Men seemed to grow slower, their skin turning ashen as he neared. It was as if their very essence... their souls were touched by something dark, pulled out of them as he got close. More than once Jonas saw men just stop, their weapons falling from their hands as they stared at Markus, their eyes blank, as if all hope, and joy had fled. Jonas screamed. Or, he tried to. His cry was cut short as an enemy slammed into him, driving the flat of his shield into Jonas with a force that pushed the wind out of him, causing him to see stars, as he was flung to his back. The enemy soldier stood over him, his sword raised and ready, about to plunge into Jonas, when suddenly the man went still and grew pale, then fell to his knees. The soldiers breath was coming in shorter, and shorter gasps, puffs of steam as if he were trapped in a winter's night escaping his lips, then nothing as he tumbled off to one side. Jonas looked up to see Markus, standing over him all darkness, and terror. Then he simply walked away, back into the mad rush of the fight. Not a word was spoken. Later, if you asked him about it, Jonas would have a hard time telling you whether he was happier about being alive, or Markus not speaking to him.

    The battle was over in under an hour. If a battle was really what you would call what happened. Eight hundred Beymount men dead, only twenty from Markus's ranks. The rest had defected. It was a slaughter. It had been planned out perfectly, with cold calculation. There was no war waged here, it was a coup. The generals directed the men as they swept through the city, rounding up the commoners and workers. They quickly set them to gathering the harvested goods, and loading them into wagons. Taking the garrisons supplies to feed their own army. Afterwords, they were broken into groups and given two options. Stay, fight for their freedom, and have new lives, or run. Run back to their "King." Very few chose to leave. After being shown that the Kingdoms forces could be bested, they took heart, and flocked to the banner that they saw as a redemption, a salvation. Within three hours of the first arrow shot, the smoke from the burning fields rose all the way to the heavens. The flames spreading fast, and hot. The first battle of the war decisively won.

* * *

    Relland paced as his generals read the newly arrived reports to him. _All lost...The whole fucking mountain...Cloudpeak taken and burned to ash. The whole of the garrison there dead, or defected. How in the hell could this be? They couldn't truly mean that... that this Markus was behind it? He was nothing more that a fantasy, some desert rat given status over some raids or some such. And to call him a prince? Prince of what? Fucking sand dunes?_

    Relland's thoughts were running fast as he walked back and forth. "How long will it take to mount a counter attack? Can we trap them in the passes before the make ground on this side?" Relland demanded. 

    "No way to know Sire, we had no clue they were even here until it happened. Before a runner could even get away with the first report, he had taken the city. The poor man almost didn't make it out at all, he only carries the message given by the enemy forces. So our information is limited to say the least..." General Targen said, doing his best to keep the spite from showing in his voice. He had warned the King for weeks that there were rumors of a force heading up from the Wastes, but the King threw it off like everything else. Called the reports nothing but more fanciful flecks of peasant shit, meant to disturb the gentry. 

     "I want scouts sent immediately, get eyes on it at once. And call in the eastern armies, have them here as quickly as you can." The King barked. 

    "B...but Sire, that would leave us open on that side, able to be flanked..." Targen said, hoping the Kind would see reason. If the enemy had made it to the mountains, and taken that city this easily, there is no reason to think they would not have made movements to flank, and they needed to be ready for it if they did. If they moved those men it was sure to be a slaughter. A tactical disaster 

    "You heard me General...Do as I command, or I can find another hopped up fucking peasant to fill your boots, and they, will follow orders I am certain..." The King hissed as he stomped out of the room. The three Generals were left there, trying to figure out how to obey the King, and not lose this war at the same time. As each hour passed, doing both seemed less, and less likely.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly comment even if you do not comment kindly


End file.
